


if I could only reach you

by imperiousheiress



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Canon, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), touch-starved crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 06:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19762966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperiousheiress/pseuds/imperiousheiress
Summary: “Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Whatarewe going to do with you?”And then, his hand runs tenderly down Crowley’s back. He twitches, entire body tensing. Aziraphale pays no mind. He just keeps languidly stroking Crowley’s scales, going with the grain, and- Oh. Oh, that’snice.





	if I could only reach you

The front door rattles in the frame as it closes, the bell above jangling erratically. Crowley marches across the wood floor, huffing loudly all the way.

“Oh, _really_ now, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs mildly, following at a much less aggressive trot behind him. “You’re making such a fuss over nothing.”

Crowley spins on his heel so he’s facing Aziraphale. He’s brandishing a book in one hand, one that he’d just nabbed off a nearby rack is now waving threateningly in the air.

“Oh! Oh, _nothing?_ Really?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes so vigorously that his head lolls to the side along with them.

“Yes. Nothing.”

Crowley gapes at him, squawking not unlike a tropical bird for a moment before he hoists the book in his hand above his head and pauses for a second before heartily tossing it behind him. It’s a flimsy paperback so it doesn’t make much of an impact upon hitting the floor. Actually, it doesn’t make a sound at all other than the fluttering of paper as air catches the pages, followed by a small _thump_ almost quiet enough to be entirely drowned out by the traffic rushing by on the street.

Aziraphale just blinks at him, expression unchanged. They both know that particular book was nothing he has even an ounce of love for. It’s a display piece, more than anything - an extra thrown into the bottom of some box he’d bought on auction in order to acquire one specific volume within. And besides that, it was likely some kind of western or melodramatic romance (possibly some combination of both) - the kind usually favored by men and women in their early middle-ages. (Not that either of those genres are without merit, they’re just not ones that ever seem to run parallel to Aziraphale’s tastes.)

 _Still ,_ Crowley thinks. He _should_ be upset. On principle.

Aziraphale continues to stare at him without comment or expression.

He releases a rumbling cry of exasperation. This same argument has been going on since they left their cottage and had filled the space between them for almost the entire drive to the bookshop. But he’s not willing to give it up just yet. If it really is _nothing_ , after all, why shouldn’t Aziraphale just admit that he’s right and move on?

He holds his ground, chin up in the face of Aziraphale’s apparent disinterest. Arms crossed over his chest. Mouth clamped shut. He can do this all blessed day. Aziraphale’s eyes narrow, lips pursed tight together. 

Aziraphale loses patience first. He starts to massage his temples at the same time as he lets out a long, loud breath.

“They’re the-”

“They are _not_ the same thing!”

Crowley lowers his head and drags his hands through his hair. When he looks up again, Aziraphale is quickly stepping closer and closer, until he’s walking past Crowley altogether, heading for the back of the shop.

“Angel! _Where_ -?”

“I’m not going to keep arguing with you,” he huffs over his shoulder. “I’m getting a drink.”

Crowley splutters but can’t seem to put any actual words together. Sucking in a last exasperated breath, he plops down on one end of the sofa behind the desk, whipping his glasses off and tossing them onto the nearby end table before crossing his arms over his chest. His foot taps an errant rhythm against the wood floor. Glancing around the room, he catches sight of the book he’d tossed on the floor earlier. It looks sad and rumpled; the cover is folded at an awkward angle underneath it, sandwiched between the floor and the pages. One snap of his fingers and the book shows up right back where he’d taken it from in the first place, free of any creases or wrinkles.

It’s not long before Aziraphale returns, announcing his presence with a cup that clinks delicately against the top of the table next to Crowley. 

“Coffee,” he says without preamble. He takes a seat in the center of the sofa next to Crowley, his own cup cradled in both hands. It smells of chocolate and sweetness, and Crowley turns his head away. He tenses when he feels a gentle touch against his arm and leans away, pressing himself further into the armrest.

Aziraphale’s answering sigh is so despondent that Crowley can’t help but glance over. Just to come face to face with Aziraphale’s big blue eyes and graceful frown. He quickly turns back around.

“Darling, please.” The hand on Crowley’s arm sneaks upwards until Aziraphale’s fingers are toying with the collar of his shirt, brushing against his neck. A shiver runs through him, all the way down to his toes and back up once more. “You’re not really still upset, are you?” 

Aziraphale leans in, face following the trajectory of his fingers until the warmth of his breath is ghosting against Crowley’s ear and he has no way of putting more space between them without falling off the sofa. He snaps his head around to fix Aziraphale with his most venomous glare, and then he’s gone. 

Although _gone_ may not be entirely accurate. More precisely, he has shrunk, leaving behind in the seat which he had just been occupying a very long, black snake. A snake that is currently spiraled tight into a ball that is seemingly much smaller than his size would indicate should be possible.

 _“Oh!”_ Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley glares up at him from between the folds of his long, scaly body before tucking his head back into the center of his coiled form, effectively shutting out his vision of the rest of the world. Even so, he still feels it along the length of his side when the sofa cushions lift as they lose Aziraphale’s weight.

Good. He _wants_ to be left alone. If he’s alone, then Aziraphale is too, which serves him right.

What he doesn’t expect to feel is two warm, soft hands sliding underneath him and lifting him into the air. Gravity forces him to slip out of the knot he had wound himself into, so when Aziraphale twists him carefully around he gets an up-close eyeful of his sparkling eyes and beaming smile.

“Hello, beautiful.”

Crowley hisses quietly and ducks his head. Aziraphale only chuckles, continually readjusting his hold with Crowley’s ever-shifting body so that he’s always offering the most support possible. He turns and starts walking, and Crowley’s wriggling slows. He can’t tell where they’re going until they stop just a little ways away and Aziraphale settles carefully into one of the armchairs up front. The same one Crowley often finds himself dozing in; the one purposefully positioned _just so_ in order to absorb the most sun possible throughout the day.

Even when Aziraphale lowers Crowley back into his lap, his hands don’t leave him. Crowley writhes, moving to squirm away. He’s _sulking_. He doesn’t want to be held in Aziraphale’s _lap_.

He doesn’t get very far, seeing as any way of escaping the chair is being effectively blocked from him by the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. Ok, then. Plan two. He twists around and slinks up the front of Aziraphale’s vest, rearing his head back to hiss directly at him, letting his forked tongue flicker out for good measure. To his annoyance, Aziraphale’s smile just softens.

“Oh, my dear.” He shakes his head. “What _are_ we going to do with you?”

And then, his hand runs tenderly down Crowley’s back. He twitches, entire body tensing. Aziraphale pays no mind. He just keeps languidly stroking Crowley’s scales, going with the grain, and- Oh. Oh, that’s _nice_.

He relaxes involuntarily, melting into Aziraphale’s touch and sinking back down against his chest. The heat radiating from his body is delicious. He chases after it, stretching up until he can hide his face against the sensitive skin of Aziraphale’s neck, just above his collar. This time, when he wiggles, it’s so he can feel the way his body slips through Aziraphale’s hands, which keep up a steady, soothing rhythm against him.

Gradually, he slinks around the back of Aziraphale’s neck until he’s draped over his shoulders, nuzzling against his collarbone. He hums and Crowley can feel it in his scales. Wrapped around Aziraphale, basking in the dual warmth from both him and the sun, soft, gentle hands caressing the length of his body- This might be the most comfortable he’s ever been. He could stay just like this forever. 

It takes him a moment to notice when the petting stops. He’s not sure how long it’s been, but the only reason he moves is because he’s disrupted by Aziraphale’s rather deliberate shifting. Begrudgingly, he raises his head to see what’s going on and immediately notices two things. 

First, it’s noticeably darker than it had been when they’d first gotten to the shop. Second, he is _much_ higher up than he was a moment ago. And, _oh_ \- They’re moving. 

He feels a tug at his tail and he involuntarily squeezes tight around Aziraphale in surprise, but only for a moment. A second later, Aziraphale stops, and familiar steady hands lift him gently from around their owner’s neck. He is set very carefully down atop a rough wooden surface that is much colder and much less pleasant than his previous perch.

He curls in on himself automatically, an instinct to preserve heat, but keeps his head up, beady eyes focused intently on Aziraphale, head tilted to one side.

“Alright, dearest,” Aziraphale says, expression adoring, as he strokes his thumb over Crowley’s scales once more before bracing his hand against the edge of the desk. “If I admit you’re right, will you please come back to me? I’d love dearly to tempt you to dinner.”

Crowley stretches forward while Aziraphale studies him patiently. And then, after a beat, he jerks his head back, tucking his face into the center of his coils. A moment later, Aziraphale’s sigh turns into a gasp, and he straightens up to better meet familiar serpentine eyes.

Eyes that are now being framed, once again, by soft flesh and a long, straight nose, and a shock of dark red hair. Crowley’s arms are crossed over his chest and he’s not looking directly at Aziraphale. Not until familiar, soft hands frame his face and he can’t help melting into the touch that he had already begun to miss in the minute or so since Aziraphale had put him down.

“It’s good to have you back.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but his smile is even softer. He inserts himself easily into Crowley’s space, tucking himself between his legs where he’s perched atop the desk and drawing ever closer.

Before Crowley can even get one word into his mumbling, petty protest that he _hadn’t actually gone anywhere_ , he is silenced by the pleasant pressure of lips against his own. He lets his arms fall, hands moving on their own accord to hold steady to either side of Aziraphale’s waist, drawing him in impossibly more as he returns the kiss.

Aziraphale pulls away first, still close enough that the contented breath he huffs tickles at Crowley’s nose.

If anyone were to question _why_ Crowley says what he does next, he would chalk it up to his demonic nature - his need to have the last laugh. It’s _not_ because he’s still pouting, because he most certainly _isn’t_.

“They’re called _hand_ towels for a reason. You can’t just use them to do the dishes.”

Aziraphale chuckles and the sound is a wonderful melody to accompany the beating of Crowley’s heart.

“Yes, yes, you win,” he says, kissing Crowley once more before his eyes start to wander, following the invisible thread of his thoughts. He licks his lips. “Now. What are you feeling? I think I’m in the mood for sushi.”

  


Crowley can’t stop thinking about it. Every waking moment that his mind isn’t thoroughly occupied by something else, his thoughts are drifting back to Aziraphale’s touch - the tender way his fingers had stroked along Crowley’s scales, the full force of his affection seeping through that miniscule point of contact and into Crowley’s skin.

He continually finds his eyes lingering on Aziraphale’s hands, and his own hands twitch around the handle of his wine glass or the end of his armrest, itching to reach out. To touch. To be touched.

As much as he tries to deny it - more to himself than anyone else - these thoughts aren’t new. And it isn’t as though he never has any physical contact with Aziraphale. On the contrary, Crowley’s hands have come to know every inch of his body. Thoroughly. On numerous occasions. And his own form has come to be known just as well in return. Perhaps _better_.

But those are circumstances that call for it. For Aziraphale’s hands in his hair and their tongues in each other’s mouths, one body sandwiched between another and the nearest flat surface. It’s always been _after_ that leaves Crowley aching. When he’s stretched languidly across the sheets and Aziraphale is propped against the headboard next to him, book in hand as he waits for Crowley to descend into sleep. Or the morning after, when Aziraphale is standing beside the kettle in their kitchen ( _Their_ kitchen.) and he wants nothing more than to sidle up next to him and wrap him in his arms. Or the following afternoon, when Aziraphale is curled up with a book or cooing at the plants with sickening sweetness, and it seems as though nothing has ever appeared to be a better pillow than his lap. Or the evenings, sat not quite across from each other at a table - either their own, or one of the restaurants they visit regularly - when Aziraphale has just placed his napkin back down, hand idling over it on the table top, in the perfect position for holding.

Ok so, possibly, Crowley had already been thinking about it a _lot_.

But those thoughts had been brief, easily shaken. Not like now, after… After he had known the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands across him, the peace of burrowing against his chest, just basking in his presence. Being _held_.

The sun is dancing through the cottage’s full-length bay windows, bathing Aziraphale in a light that could almost be considered celestial and making him positively glow. Crowley is snug in what has long since become “his” armchair, legs tucked up against his chest, just watching as he turns pages, face twitching once in a while in a number of subtle and wonderful ways as he reacts to whatever it is he’s reading. 

Crowley’s eyes flicker to the empty space on the sofa next to him, and he can’t help but imagine what it might be like if he were filling it. If instead of a book, Aziraphale was holding _him_ , fingers running along _his_ spine.

He lets himself get so caught up in the image that he doesn’t notice Aziraphale talking to him until he’s getting up, moving directly into his line of sight.

“Crowley?” he says again.

“Huh? What? Oh…”

“I asked if you’d like anything. I’m going to the kitchen for a drink.” He frowns, eyes flickering over Crowley’s face. “Are you feeling alright, dear?”

Aziraphale’s hand twitches towards him but stops before it reaches its destination and that, more than anything, is what snaps Crowley out of his own head. He turns his head away, a tightness rising in his chest, and waves a casual hand.

“Oh, yeah,” he scoffs. “Yeah. ‘M fine. No, no. Nothing for me; thanks, angel.”

He can see the protests rising to Aziraphale’s lips and he tenses. His mind shuffles through excuses like a rolodex and his skin is buzzing with the need to reach out. He’s half afraid that if he _does_ try to answer Aziraphale, instead of his mouth opening, his arms are going to start moving with a mind of their own.

But Aziraphale doesn’t ask any questions or press for any answers. All he says is, “Alright.”

Then, shoulders sagging, he hesitates for a split second more before turning and walking towards the kitchen. His footsteps stop, briefly, and the tips of Crowley’s ears burn under the stare he can feel on the back of his neck. And then Aziraphale steps into the kitchen for real, his disappearance into the other room marked by the sound of a cabinet opening and closing. Crowley glances over his shoulder, just to visually confirm that he really is gone.

When Aziraphale steps back into the room a scant minute later, Crowley is gone. He stops just past the doorway, his sweet rosé sloshing in its glass as he stares at the empty chair. He blinks once. Twice.

No, not _empty_ , he realises after a moment. Poking just over the edge of the armrest is a little black head shaped somewhat like a squash, staring back at him with two beady eyes. Crowley flicks his tongue out, relishing in Aziraphale’s scent and slinks forward so he’s hanging further over the armrest, trying his best to look as forlorn as possible. 

Aziraphale’s expression softens and he walks forward, passing by Crowley’s chair. He plops back into the seat and watches him walk, little heart beating fast somewhere just below his neck. For a moment, he thinks his plan is an utter failure. But then, Aziraphale sets his wine glass down on the end table just next to the book he’d been reading before and turns back around, marching with a new determination back towards Crowley.

A moment later, he’s being gently scooped into Aziraphale’s arms, listening to him tutting right next to his ear.

Crowley, perhaps a little too eagerly, starts to twine himself around Aziraphale’s arm, coils squeezing around him as gently as possible so he can better hold on. Aziraphale reclaims his seat on the far end of the sofa, back against the armrest. Crowley wiggles his way up his chest, tail still wrapped tight around his wrist.

“I’ve got you.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft. His free hand pets over Crowley’s curving coils, fingers dancing across his scales. 

Slowly, Crowley’s tail relaxes its hold and he curls it in closer to his body, pleased to find Aziraphale is leaning back enough to fully support him without either of them holding on. He snuggles himself comfortably atop Aziraphale’s chest, face nuzzled into his collar. All six feet of him relaxes as every ounce of tension drains from his body. For the first time in days, he finally, _finally_ feels entirely at peace.

  


They slip into a pattern.

It’s good… _nice_ , even. Every time the buzzing beneath Crowley’s skin becomes too much, he finds himself twisting and shrinking until his body is nothing more than a tight coil covered with sleek black scales. Aziraphale never fails to gather him into his arms, arranging him into his lap or draping him over his shoulders - it depends on what he’s working on at the time - and absently petting him when he has a free hand.

Sometimes, he’ll change while they’re in the bookshop. More than one would-be customer has gotten a good look at him and dropped whatever they’d been doing in short order to instead hustle out the door. He can’t help feeling a little proud whenever he watches the color drain from someone’s face. Especially because, after, Aziraphale’s face never fails to stretch into that smug little smile that Crowley loves and that he always tries so hard to cover up.

He doesn’t change in public places. They still do dinner, and picnics, and walks around St. James’ Park, and still have their usual conversations. It’s the times in between, when it’s quiet and still, that Crowley curls up against his angel, soaking in his heat and relishing the feeling of silky skin against his scales, tasting Aziraphale’s scent on his tongue. He’s happy. Not that he _wasn’t_ happy before. Now, though, he’s overflowing with a new sense of contentment, a feeling that flutters giddily in his chest where once there was nothing.

Even so, sometimes he almost forgets. There are moments, still, when his mind and his vision shift to Aziraphale and he wants to reach out - to wrap around him, to curl up atop his lap or bury his face in his chest. But, then he remembers. He’s still all pesky limbs and hands and hair. Stuck in this lanky, cumbersome form that Aziraphale has never held the same way he does Crowley’s snake body. 

But, that’s unimportant. They have a routine, one that works.

Until it doesn’t.

They’re in the shop and, for the last half hour, Aziraphale has been periodically glancing unsubtly over at where Crowley is tucked against the opposite side of the sofa from him. Crowley, eyelids drooping, has been studiously avoiding letting on that he’s noticed, although he’s not sure his ruse is entirely effective. After all, he’s been distracted himself. Whenever Aziraphale’s left hand has dropped to his lap or fallen against the back of the sofa in between turning pages, his own hands have twitched in response, fingers longing to reach out and twine with Aziraphale’s.

Finally, after forever and a day, Aziraphale places his book aside and stands wordlessly. Crowley doesn’t miss the little bounce in his step, or the last glance he shoots over his shoulder. Crowley waits until he isn’t looking to let his own smile flicker across his face. As Aziraphale reaches the door and bolts it shut, he lets himself relax and feels the familiar shifting of sinew and rearranging of muscle, and he waits.

Aziraphale turns back around and freezes. 

His eyes quickly flicker downwards, readjusting from where he’d thought Crowley’s eyes were going to be. His brow crumples, just for a moment, and then the smile is back on his face. It’s visibly strained.

He hesitates, for just a moment - a moment that someone who hasn’t known him as long as Crowley has might easily dismiss as nothing. But Crowley knows better. He straightens, head and neck rising in a rigid line above the rest of his curled body, and watches closely. Aziraphale trudges towards him, no longer looking as springy as he had a moment ago, before he’d flipped the sign to close the shop.

Crowley glances around, peeks over his shoulder, even at the other side of the sofa, looking for, well, _anything_. Any sign as to what might have dampened Aziraphale’s mood. But he finds nothing. The only thing that’s changed is, well… it’s _him_. His stomach falls from the middle of his body to somewhere around his spurs.

He watches Aziraphale closely, waiting for some kind of explanation, half-expecting him to make some excuse as to why he can’t hold him. Maybe he’s pushed his luck. They haven’t actually talked about, well, _any of this_. Maybe even as a snake, the physical contact has been too much for Aziraphale. Maybe, he’s uncomfortable-

Crowley’s racing thoughts are broken by Aziraphale’s hefty sigh. The kind of sigh that’s usually followed by words of some kind - sometimes ones that are whispered or shouted. He braces himself, rearing back, but the words don’t come.

Azirapahle just continues to stare at him, face growing softer and, to Crowley’s surprise, a little sad. And then, as usual, he reaches down and lifts Crowley with the same care he always uses. Crowley doesn’t know if his coils have ever been so tense, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to pay any mind. Just sits down in the same spot he’d been occupying a minute ago, getting Crowley settled on his lap in a way that would normally be comfortable. He sighs again.

His hands idle against Crowley’s body, not really petting but rather just… sitting. Unmoving. Crowley raises his head once more to look at him, but Aziraphale isn’t looking back. His gaze is elsewhere, somewhere over the back of the sofa, and his eyes don’t seem to have their usual sparkle. He raises one hand to absently rub over his face.

Crowley twists to nudge his nose against Aziraphale’s palm. The only thing that gets him is a soft pat on the head that he flinches instinctually back from. And not even _that_ is enough to get Aziraphale to look at him. So, he does something he’s never done before.

He uncoils entirely and slithers off of Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Oh!”

He crawls all the way across the sofa until he gets to the cushion he’d been sitting on before, on the complete opposite end. When he twists around, making his body into a little swirling U-shape, he sees Aziraphale gaping at him. He blinks down at his lap and then back up at Crowley, as if he’s not sure how this separation just happened.

Then he’s looking up once more, eyes even wider if possible, as Crowley turns back.

In seconds, he’s returned to his usual visage as a man-shaped being, and he immediately brings one hand up to rub at the back of his neck. He steels himself, forcing his jaw to unclench before he meets Aziraphale’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he blurts, ungracefully. Aziraphale stiffens.

“Why, my dear, I don’t know what you’re-”

“Bullshit. Don’t try and pull that on me.”

Aziraphale flinches. Crowley would feel a little guilty if he didn’t know that the reason behind the reaction has more to do with his shame about being caught than the harshness of Crowley’s words. Ok, he still feels a little guilty. 

He sighs.

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale is staring resolutely down at his hands where they’re clenched in his lap, lips pursed tightly together. He takes a deep breath and then, for a long moment, says nothing after. Crowley is just starting to think he’s going to have to keep pressing when, finally, his eyes snap back up to Crowley’s, filled with a new determination.

“I miss you.”

Of all the things he’d been expecting - _fearing_ \- Aziraphale might say, he’d never even considered _that_. It catches him so off-guard that Aziraphale might as well have hit him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s- It’s rather selfish of me, I know. But it’s true,” Aziraphale continues, saving him from having to say anything at all. “You’ve been spending so much time as a serpent recently. And, of course, I love you no matter how you may appear, but, well. I’m afraid it’s rather hard to hold a conversation with you when you’re in that form. I miss talking with you. Hearing your laugh. Seeing you smile. Kissing you.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to duck away. An inferno is blazing in the tips of his ears. He doesn’t wear his sunglasses around Aziraphale anymore, but there are still some times when he desperately wants to hide behind them. Like now. 

“I’m the one that’s been selfish.”

“What?” Aziraphale appears alarmed. He sits up straight and inches the slightest bit closer. “No, my dear. Of course not-”

“Yes! I have.”

“You deserve to be comfortable. Whatever shape you want to take, it’s _fine_ -”

“It’s not! It’s _not_ fine!”

Crowley’s voice rings out through the shop. The following silence is deafening. He can’t look Aziraphale in the eye.

“I never meant to hurt you. I just… wanted you to hold me.” 

He inhales sharply, the air getting caught in his chest and staying there. It feels like a dozen knives stabbing through the inside of his ribcage. He’s hunched over, with his hands squeezing together in front of him, elbows on his knees.

His every muscle is wound so tight that he nearly jumps out of his seat when Aziraphale’s hand reaches out and covers his own. 

“Oh, my _dearest_. Why didn’t you just say?”

Crowley goes rigid. He turns to see that Aziraphale is sitting much closer than he had been before. So close, in fact, that his left leg is a hair’s breadth from pressing into Crowley’s. His lips are curled in a patient smile. 

Crowley blinks at him.

“What.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He gently pries Crowley’s still-stiff hands apart so he can entangle their fingers and continues to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I mean- You- I- _What?_ ”

“Oh, _really_ , you ridiculous serpent!” Aziraphale cries, half-laughing. 

Without further warning, he throws his arms over Crowley’s shoulders, dragging him into a fierce embrace. For a moment, Crowley doesn’t move at all. Can hardly remember how to breathe. And then, gradually, with unexpected grace, he sinks into Aziraphale’s arms. His hands come up to clutch desperately at the back of his sweater vest. He buries his face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He can feel one hand running slowly up and down the length of his spine while the other tangles in the hair at his nape. He shudders violently. Involuntarily. Aziraphale’s touch is soft, and warm, and tender, and every other wonderful thing that it had been when he’d been a snake. 

“Is this what you wanted?”

Crowley nods, not trusting himself to speak through the knot his throat has twisted itself into.

“All you ever had to do was ask,” Aziraphale says. He sounds just as breathless as Crowley feels. “I didn’t know- I’ve also wanted to- For so _long_.” 

Crowley pries himself away, leaning back just far enough to look Aziraphale in the eye. He never once breaks contact; not for a second.

“You never said anything, either.” His voice cracks. It’s not an accusation. “I just- I thought that this might be _too much_.”

The round apples of Azirphale’s cheeks glow an attractive shade of pink above his grin. He chuckles.

“Too much? My dear, I would consider this-” He gestures between them “- a step below, well. That is to say- As it is, we’ve already known each other in ways that are much more _intimate_.” 

It’s Crowley’s turn to flush.

“Yes, well.” He swallows. “I suppose I never thought to- But-But, this is _different_. Isn’t it?”

“Of course. Whatever you want, my love.” 

Aziraphale’s hands frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheeks. Crowley can’t help himself. Before he can even think about it, he tilts his chin down just enough to bring their lips together. Aziraphale kisses him back, persistent but sweet. He tilts his head, letting Crowley’s hands at his waist draw him closer, but he doesn’t press for more. Doesn’t let his hands wander, doesn’t lick at Crowley’s lips. Just lets him set the pace, the limits. 

Crowley loves him _desperately_.

He pulls back, for a moment just tracing Aziraphale’s smile with his eyes. He drops a quick kiss onto his forehead. Then, he wraps his arms around his neck and - slowly and somewhat gracelessly - lifts his legs up on the sofa so they’re draped over Aziraphale’s, one ankle hooked behind his calf.

Aziraphale readjusts his grip. He loops one arm around Crowley’s back and steadies him with the other hand against his thigh. With a sigh of contentment, Crowley lets his head fall against his shoulder, nuzzling into him.

“Better?” Aziraphale murmurs, chest rumbling against Crowley’s cheek as he speaks. “From now on, if there’s anything you want from me - _anything at all_ \- you only need ask. You don’t have to go slithering around behind my back.”

Crowley is too comfortable to manage a snappy comeback or feigned protest. He just nods, sinking deeper into his angel’s arms. 

Later that night, after Crowley convinces Aziraphale to actually sleep _for once_ , he lays on their oversized bed, half atop Aziraphale, cradled securely in his arms. He descends into sleep with one of Aziraphale’s hands tangled in his hair and the other stroking along his back. And, while he’s no stranger to the joys of sleeping, he can confidently say that it might be the best night’s sleep he’s ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> (the next time Crowley gets the impulse to hold Aziraphale’s hand, he does it. and then he buries his face in his other hand and blushes for twenty minutes.)
> 
> I based Crowley's snake form off the [super black pastel ball python](https://www.google.com/search?q=super+black+pastel+ball+python&rlz=1C1OKWM_enUS786US786&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjq6u-8jqzjAhWmAZ0JHdNMD58Q_AUIECgB&biw=953&bih=920#imgrc=lDa7aAVbC1cgUM:)  
> tell me what I did wrong! tell me what I did right! give me more prompts/ideas!
> 
> [ on tumblr ](http://imperiousheiress.tumblr.com)


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